Blood Ties (5 page)

Since humans weren't to be killed except on the rarest of occasions, Ty would only knock out the kids. And he wouldn't leave them in the freezers long enough to give them frostbite. It didn't take long for him to extract a pint of blood from each child, using a syringe between the toes that barely left a mark. Sometimes Ty couldn't resist taking a quick bite, but then he just used the usual bite-concealment creams and memory potions, so that afterward, the kids would find themselves back on the street corner with little idea of what had just happened, and even with a free ice cream in their strangely cold hands.

Ty's boss, Harvey, of Harvey's Discount Sanguinarium, didn't mind Ty's occasional snacking as long as he got the pints of blood, which he sold at his store. A few bucks from the normal ice-cream sales never hurt, either.

“Hey, Ty,” said Oliver as they stepped to the window.

“Gentlemen,” Ty said while wistfully eyeing two young kids who'd just run off with ice cream. “Where's your little human girlfriend, Nocturne?”

“Shut up, Ty,” Oliver said without worry. Of Bane's friends, Ty was maybe the least evil, or maybe the most, because he truly didn't care what anyone else did with their time, or how anyone felt in general. Nothing mattered to him one way or the other, which meant that you never knew what he might do. But he probably wouldn't bother telling Bane that he'd seen Oliver. “How's business?” Oliver asked.

“Booming,” Ty said with a wide smile. He banged on the freezer unit to his right, and Oliver and Dean heard a faint whimper from within. “What can I get you guys?”

“Gotta be Choco Tacos,” said Dean.

“Ah, Oliver's sorry minion makes a fine choice.” Ty turned around and reached down into the corner of the back freezer box, where the special Choco Tacos—the ones that had deliciously sweet possum blood added to them—were stored.

Oliver placed a few
myna
onto the counter as Ty handed over the ice cream. “Thanks, and have a lovely evening, you human-loving losers.” His pleasant tone and grin never changed as he turned to an approaching group of human kids. “Who's next?”

Back on the sidewalk, Emalie emerged from the shadows. “Happy?” She was lowering her camera and slipping it back into her bag.

Oliver shrugged, loving his latest bite of chocolatey blood goodness. “Happy enough … Good photo?”

“Yeah.” Emalie's eyes gleamed. “The light was perfect. Made the inside of the truck glow, and you guys were silhouetted … well, sort of. You were blurry as usual, Oliver. It was right out of a coffee-table book, except for the undead part.”

Oliver chuckled around a mouthful of sweets. He liked hearing Emalie talk about her photos.

“So,” mumbled Dean, his mouth also full, “how will we find you in Fortuna?”

“Right.” Emalie fiddled in her bag, then pulled out a tiny object and held it out to Oliver.

“What's this?” Oliver asked as he took it. It was a small red plastic toy television, with a paper photo of Niagara Falls for a screen. There was a single yellow dial on the top. When you turned the dial, the cheap picture rolled to show a new one, also of Niagara Falls.

“I imbued it with a contact enchantment,” said Emalie proudly. “When you get to Morosia, turn the dial four times forward, two back, then say my name.”

“Got it.” Oliver pocketed the toy.

They stopped at the next intersection. “So,” Emalie said, “I guess I'll be seeing you guys in Europe!”

Oliver nodded, yet with the slightest worry inside. “Be careful, Emalie.”

She flashed him a brash smile. “Of course,” she said, and took off into the dark.

Oliver returned home to find the downstairs quiet. The kitchen was empty, yet the plasma screen was on. It showed one of the human talk shows on a popular twenty-four-hour news channel, which was a vampire favorite for its violent war coverage. Of the three opinionated pundits who sat around a table arguing about the news of the day, the man on the right was actually a vampire named Karl Stallworth. He loved to shout about things and enrage his two cohosts. “You gotta lock these people up and throw away the key!” he was bellowing now, his jowls jiggling.

A plate of dinner waited on the kitchen island: tempura tofu marinated in shark blood. Oliver grabbed a goblet and opened the fridge. He took down a small glass bottle along with a can of Coke. He unscrewed the bottle with a hiss and poured a small amount of syrupy liquid from it: kitten blood. It was so potent, and came in such small amounts, that it had to be diluted, preferably with something sweet. Oliver popped open the soda and added it. He sat down to eat.

“Who cares how they're treated if they're evildoers?” Karl Stallworth practically screamed, his eyes just barely glowing as he watched the shock register on his cohosts' faces.

Oliver was a few bites into dinner when he heard a light clinking of glasses. Straining his ears, he heard the sound of low voices from down the hall. Phlox, Sebastian, and someone else…

Oliver slid off his stool and started down the hall. Light spilled from the study. He heard the popping of a cork. “Blood malt?” Sebastian was asking.

“Just a nip—can't stay long.” Oliver recognized the third voice. It was Tyrus McKnight, one of Sebastian's coworkers at Half-Light. Oliver could picture him, tall and gaunt, with curly hair and small round glasses, always wearing a high black turtleneck beneath his long coat. Tyrus had worked with Sebastian when they were trying to stop the Scourge of Selket, back in the winter. Oliver didn't know what Tyrus did at Half-Light, only that he wasn't an attorney like Sebastian.

Oliver concentrated on the forces and climbed up the wall to the ceiling, where he continued quietly down the hall.

There was a sound of pouring liquid.

“Thanks,” said Tyrus, adding, “you should pour yourself one.”

Oliver moved slowly across the ceiling to the doorway directly opposite the study, which led into the dark guest crypt. He crawled inside to the far wall and dropped to the floor, then moved along the wall until he could just see out the door and into the study.

Tyrus was sitting behind Sebastian's ancient teak desk. The glass computer monitor obscured most of his face as he flicked the mouse around. Phlox was standing over his shoulder, biting a fingernail. Sebastian wasn't in sight, which was unfortunate because of what he said next:

“So, this is the Stiletto of Alamut?”

“That's it,” Tyrus replied without looking over. “I retrieved it from the ancient fortress vaults myself. It should do the job, though I don't envy you for having to do it.”

Phlox glanced toward Sebastian, deep lines of concern on her brow.

“Well, apparently, it's what needs to be done,” said Sebastian darkly. There was a sound of metal against leather, as if this Stiletto was being put in its sheath.

“I still don't see why Sebastian has to be the one to do it,” said Phlox, her voice edgy.

“I know,” said Tyrus, “but you heard what Ravonovich said. It's a show of faith. Ravonovich thinks he has reasons to doubt.”

“After all our loyalty…” Phlox grumbled.

“Trust me, I know,” Tyrus agreed, “but you have to admit, the sign readers have been clear about what must be done if things aren't working out. Ravonovich feels that because of this whole development with the human girl, we have to take this action.… The prophecy must be put above any one individual, no matter how … important. So I'm afraid we don't have a choice.”

Phlox's lips pursed. The room remained silent. Oliver felt his gut tightening into a knot.

“All right, here's the location where it must be done.” Tyrus nodded at the computer screen. Phlox leaned over.

Sebastian appeared over Tyrus's other shoulder. “That's near Morosia, so the cover story will work perfectly.”

“Yes,” Tyrus continued. “As I've said, it's best that it's done in a remote spot, so there's no outcry from the locals. Even our kind doesn't take kindly to this type of slaying.”

“And you're sure there's no other way?” Oliver could hear the worry in Phlox's voice. “Couldn't we just…”

“I'm sorry, Phlox,” said Tyrus grimly. “I know the loss will be hard, but this is the only way. And besides, I talked to Dr. Vincent. He feels that it will be possible to make a replacement.”

“I hate this,” Phlox hissed.

“Phlox.” Sebastian reached over and patted her shoulder. “We can do this. You know it's the right thing.”

“I don't know that any of this is right anymore.”

“All right, I gotta get back.” Tyrus stood. “I think you have everything you need.”

“I suppose I do.” Sebastian nodded.

“Then I'll see you on the boat to Isla Necrata. And, Seb, hell's speed, eh?”

“I'll need it,” muttered Sebastian.

Oliver sank back into the darkness, listening as Tyrus left the study and let himself out. He moved closer to the door, hearing the sound of rustling fabric, and saw his parents embracing.

“A show of faith,” Phlox muttered darkly into Sebastian's broad shoulder. “Haven't we shown enough faith over all these years?” Her eyes shimmered turquoise.

“I know,” Sebastian murmured. “But it will be over soon, and then we'll finally be able to get it right.”

“Maybe.”

Oliver slipped back to the ceiling and crept down the hall. He grabbed his dinner and headed downstairs. His thoughts were racing, spinning into tight knots of worry.

What must be done if the prophecy isn't working out.…Dr. Vincent can make a replacement.… We'll finally be able to get it right.

Oliver found himself shaking all over. Could they mean anything else? All the disappointment and awkward silence from his parents over the last few months.… They didn't just think he was having problems, they thought he was a failure, not only as a son but to the entire prophecy for which he'd been created. And now what? They were going to—

It's not possible,
he thought. And yet, hadn't Dr. Vincent said it himself last winter?
We can always try again.…

Oliver tried to put the conversation out of his mind, and yet there was no way. It stayed with him all through the sleepless weekend, and no matter how he tried, he could only come to one conclusion: the Stiletto of Alamut was meant for him.

Chapter 4

Beneath the Earth and Sea

“
OLIVER! CHARLES!
”

Oliver sat in front of his coffin, the drawers beneath it open, clothes spilling out around him. Beside him, his suitcase—a sleek, black, wheeled one that his parents had picked out and, worst of all, had monogrammed with silver letters—sat empty.

“Mom! ReLAX!” Bane snapped back.

Oliver looked over his shoulder to see Bane stuffing a pile of different boots into a canvas duffel. There were his beat-up cowboy boots, a pair of cracked black railroad boots, green combat lace-ups, and even the steel-tipped pair from their family vacation to the demon rodeo in Brazil.

“What?” Bane snapped, catching Oliver's gaze. Bane had dyed the middle shock of his black hair a glow-in-the-dark shade of orange. “Trying to decide which diapers to pack?”

Oliver just huffed and turned away. He thought about pointing out how stupid it was to bring more pairs of boots on the trip than shirts, but remembered that real vampires actually thought things like boots, as well as hats and coats, were the most important pieces of clothing in terms of fashion. Vampires barely cared what shirt or pants you were wearing—they frequently wore the same ones for days—if you had a cool selection of the other items, which were all the better if they had a story behind them: the boots you took off a human victim; the hat you won from another vampire while playing cards; the jacket you stole from a needy child, and so on.

Bane stood up now and sauntered out of the room. Not accidentally, his heavy, boot-laden bag smacked the back of Oliver's head as he passed. “Don't make us late, lamb,” he sneered over his shoulder.

Oliver looked back at his clothes. He had no cool coatsor boots, unless you counted the few things that, like his suitcase, his parents had gotten him. Even vampires his age without demons had started their collections by now. It hadn't ever really interested Oliver.

Of course, he had started a different kind of collection, which he ran into now as he rummaged in his drawer. He caught a glimpse of the ivory box in which he kept a growing collection of objects from Emalie and stuffed it deep in his drawer. That was not a collection he wanted any other vampires to see. And speaking of Emalie, the reason he was gazing at his clothes right now was maybe because he was worried about which shirts and pants he should be wearing when he saw her.…

Just one more example,
Oliver thought dejectedly,
of how I'm a failure.
Speaking of which, why worry at all about what he packed?
Since it's probably a one-way trip—no, that can't be what they meant.

Oliver had gone over and over the conversation he'd heard the other night, but the truth was, no matter how often he tried to talk himself out of it, what else could his parents have possibly meant? Didn't their conversation mean that he'd been deemed a failure to the prophecy and now he was going to be … what? Slain with some Stiletto thing by his father?

He's not my real father.
Oliver shook his head miserably as his mind drifted back to the winter, to Braiden Lang standing atop the Space Needle and telling Oliver that his human parents were actually alive, not killed at the hands of Phlox and Sebastian on the night they sired Oliver. It had stopped Oliver in his tracks, and he remembered the feeling he'd had afterward: He'd been excited.

But since then, Emalie had searched the newspapers for any clue to contradict the article she'd already found, the one that had clearly stated that Oliver's human parents, Howard and Lindsey Bailey, had been killed on that night sixty-four years ago. The only odd thing that Emalie had found was something she couldn't find: There was no record of
where
the Baileys had been buried. Oliver, Emalie, and Dean had taken a few trips to cemeteries and hadn't found them. But there were lots of cemeteries in town still to be checked.